A Morning for Flamingos (Dave Robicheaux 4)

"Somebody saw him around the Pontabla Apartments two nights ago. It makes sense. Tony Cardo's girlfriend lives there. The same night, he was at a full-contact karate place out on the Airline."

"Who told you all this?"

"A guy I know."

"Which guy?"

"Just a guy in the street."

"What are you hiding here, Dave?"

"Are you going to check out the karate club, or do you want me to do it?"

"We'll handle it."

"His hair's dyed black and cut short now, and he may be wearing glasses."

"Who's the guy in the street?"

"Forget it, Minos."

"You never change."

"What if the deal goes sour today?"

"Then get the fuck out of there."

"You don't want me to bust them?"

"You walk out of it. We don't borrow people from other agencies to get them hurt."

"One other thing I didn't mention to you. This guy Fontenot knows I've got a grudge against Boggs. I get the feeling he'd like to see me go up against him."

"You know what a yard bitch is in the joint? That's Uncle Ray Fontenot, a fat dipshit who gets off watching the swinging dicks carve on each other. Call me after the score and we'll take the dope off you."

I was nervous. My palms were moist, I walked about aimlessly in the apartment, I burned a pan on the stove. Finally I put on my gym shorts, running shoes, and a sweatshirt, jogged along the levee by the river, and circled back on Esplanade. I showered, changed into a fresh pair of khakis and a long-sleeved denim shirt. Then I fastened the holster of the Beretta to my ankle, dropped the .45 automatic in the right-hand pocket of my army field jacket, slipped the brown envelope with the fifty one-thousand bills in it into the left pocket, buttoned the flap, and backed my pickup out of the garage. The sky had turned a solid gray from horizon to horizon, the wind was blowing hard off the Gulf, and I could smell rain in the air. My palms left damp prints on the steering wheel.

Rain began to tumble out of the dome of sky through the girders when I crossed the Mississippi on the Huey Long. The river was wide and yellow far below, and froth was blowing off the bows of the oil barges. The willows along the banks were bent in the wind. As my tires whirred down the long metal-grid incline on the far side, I saw the low, flat-topped brick nightclub set back among oak trees on the left-hand side of old Highway 90. Jax and Dixie neon signs glowed in the rain-streaked windows, and when I crunched onto the oyster shells in the parking lot I saw Ray Fontenot, Lionel Comeaux, and a redheaded woman in a new blue Buick.

The woman was in back, and Fontenot was in the passenger seat and had the door partly open and one leg extended out on the shells in the light rain.

"Park your truck and get in," he said.

"Where we going?"

"Not far. You'll see. Get in."

I turned off the ignition, locked my truck, and got into the backseat next to the woman. She wore Levi's, an open leather jacket, and a yellow T-shirt without a bra, so that you could see her nipples against the cloth. The air inside the car was heavy and close with the drowsy smell of reefer.

"Great place to be toking up," I said.

"What do you care?" Lionel said.

"I care when I'm in your car," I said.

"Don't worry about it. You won't be long," he said.

"What?"